Crystal Ship
by irnan
Summary: Falling through the ceiling of a haunted house is most definitely not Dean Winchester's favourite way to spend his Wednesday nights.
1. before you slip into unconsciousness

_God, I hate having to repeat myself. __Can't you all just take this disclaiming business for granted?_

_AN: By no means a sequel, but this story does __hark back to__ my earlier __fic__ "High Fidelity" if you're puzzled by the__ reference to a certain __Led __Zeppelin song._

**Crystal Ship**

The downsides of being Dean Winchester are far too numerous for you to ever want to list them verbally or on paper, but the most obvious of them seem to have settled their differences, formed an unholy alliance and jumped you, all at once, about five minutes ago.

There's reasons you hate haunted houses, and the murderous vengeful spirits that can be found in them have nothing to do with it. No, it's the shoddy workmanship.

Take this one, for example.

It's in a small town in Maine, on the coast. Been abandoned for a few decades now; the last owner was an Army Major who died in 'Nam, and the daughter hated the place so much she just packed up and left it to rot.

Turns out she hated it because Daddy beat her Mom to death in the kitchen one night while she was locked in the hall closet, just outside, for being "naughty".

More than any other case, this sort of thing makes you sick to your stomach. No demon destroyed this family, no supernatural creature tore their lives to shreds for the fun of it. No outside, unpredictable evil killed that poor woman, stole her daughter's childhood. Instead a man who should have loved and protected them destroyed both their lives.

Demons, you get. People are just crazy. There's so much evil in the world already, but they always have to go and make more.

Anyway. Where were you? Oh, right. Seems Mom wasn't too happy about her untimely death, either. She's been killing anyone with… violent tendencies… who steps foot into the house ever since. Last week it was a kid – no older than Sam – just back from Iraq who'd come here with some friends to wallow in nostalgia at the scene of several high school parties.

Judging by the way the bedroom floor just gave out beneath you, dropping you onto the rickety couch about two hundred feet below, you're on the list as well.

Nothing seems to be broken, but you hurt all over, and the left leg of your favourite pair of jeans is getting slowly wetter. It's a little hard to tell how bad the wound is, because your legs are trapped under a pile of plaster and dry, rotting wood. You want to move, to sit up, but every time you try your head starts to spin.

Oh yeah, and you lost your shotgun. It fell right over _there_, just outta your reach.

Terrific.

_Smoke on the Water_ is playing somewhere close to you. It's rather comforting, to be honest. Not as good as Metallica, but beggars can't be choosers. And if wishes were horses, they would ride, too. The last time you rode anything even remotely resembling a horse, you were four, and Mommy and Daddy had taken you to the mall to get new shoes. Sammy cried all the way there... you told Mommy it was because he _agreed_ with you, you didn't _need_ new shoes, but she just laughed, and kissed your forehead.

_Focus_, Winchester. Vengeful spirit, bent on killing you? Ring any bells? If Dad could have seen inside your head just now he'd be flaying you alive for not paying attention.

No small part of you wishes he could have, and were.

Ah, the star of the show arrives. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting this week's vengeful spirit, materialising as we speak by Dean Winchester's buried feet.

She moves towards you with that flickering, jerking movement all ghosts share, and bends over you, close enough to touch, except, ya know, spinning head if you try to move too much. The way you're feeling right now, you wouldn't rule out pea soup, either. Her breath smells like an open grave, and you know _all_ about those.

Ghosts have breath?

"You are a man of violence," she says, and her voice echoes as though from far away, just like Moms did back in Lawrence, all those months ago.

Was that a trick question? There's no denying it, after all. The jerk of the Colt in your hand, the wet thud you could almost hear the bullet make as it entered the man's temple, the way his body collapsed… you'll never be able to erase those images from your mind, never. You're a killer. And you're not even counting the countless creatures you've killed both before and after.

Since Lenore, you can't even tell anymore if they really did all deserve it.

"It's my job, lady," you tell her. You came to terms with it a long time ago. It's what you are, and though you may regret it, there's no point trying to change it. Too late for that.

You do wish you could have managed a slightly snappier comeback, though.

She jerks her head to the side, and you could almost think that look on her face is puzzlement, if vengeful spirits can be puzzled.

"No," she says, "it is the means with which you do your job."

And she straightens, still with that odd look on her face, drawing away from you, _what the hell?_ and – disappears as the bang of a shotgun fills the room. Rock salt raining down on your face and chest, quick heavy footsteps across the floor, warm hands on your shoulders, lifting your torso, supporting you.

"Dammit Dean," your little brother's voice says, choked with fear and worry and relief, "what happened?"

You struggle to balance on your elbows and keep your head on straight at the same time as he moves to your legs and starts pulling the debris away.

"Dropped me," you rasp, surprised at how hoarse you suddenly are, how difficult it is to talk at all.

"Dropped you?"

"Made the ceiling collapse."

Pressure on your wounded leg, a comforting hand warm and heavy on your shoulder; it feels oddly familiar.

"Dad?" you ask, darkness gathering at the corners of your eyes for a moment, clutching at his hand as he pulls it away.

A choked, dry sob of laughter answers you, accompanied by the sound of tearing cloth.

"Not exactly. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

With an effort you force yourself to focus, to concentrate, feeling a twinge of embarrassment and irritation. You're the one that's supposed to be doing this for him. Not that you wish he were the one hurt, but…

"Sorry, Sammy," you manage, more for lack of anything else to say than any real need to apologise. It's a dangerous gig, and sometimes you just get unlucky.

He flashes you a tight grin in reply. "I'm used to it," he says. "Let's get out of here, come on."

Pain. Jolting, burning pain, running up your leg like tongues of fire. The Impala's headlights hurt your eyes, but the relief of sliding into the seat, the familiar smell of home that surrounds you! Then, a moment later, the deep purr of the engine starting up. As always, it seems to reverberate in your bones, soothing the pain, calming you. Music drifting out of the speakers, _Stairway to Heaven_ filling the car. Shut your eyes, and _i__f you listen very hard…_ you can almost hear the echo of her voice, singing the words as she closes your bedroom curtains and turns on the nightlight.

"Dean? Not the best of times to pass out, man. Stay with me for a bit longer, OK?"

Sammy. Right.

You open your eyes, but the darkness still creeps back into your vision. What were you doing in there anyway? You knew her victims were all men like you.

Not that any of them could ever be compared to Dean Winchester.

Even in your head that sounds unbearably arrogant. No wonder Sammy gets so annoyed sometimes. Maybe you should try and cut back a little on the outrageous comments.

Nah.

Suddenly, you remember something.

"Didn't try to hurt me," you tell Sam.

"What?" Dude, come on. You're about to pass out, can't he listen?

"Spirit. Think she was movin' away when you shot her. Said I wasn't a man of violence." It's quite an achievement, and a testament to your self-control, that even in your current state you can inject a healthy dose of scorn and all your disbelief into those last words, adding a layer of puzzlement over the top.

But as you slip into unconsciousness, Sammy says, "Dean – you're not."


	2. maybe i just don't believe

_Fo__r__ Ster, for distracti__ng me from my criminology paper, and supplying my muse with the __fuel__ needed to turn my latest short story into my first "epic"._

_Turns out the story's set after All Hell, but before season 3 (__because__ I STILL haven't seen__ it, and I'm living in a spoiler-free bubble. Or trying to, anyway.). Sorry if Dean's injuries aren't believeable, I know nothing about that sort of thing..._

* * *

When you wake up, you surface slowly out of dark, confused dreams of your bedroom back home collapsing under your feet, dropping you into the raging inferno in the living room below, and Mom is standing over you with flames licking at her nightdress, telling you _you're not a killer_, and _wake up, Dean__, please_. It's been a while since you had nightmares about Mom burning; these days, they're usually about Sam's dead weight in your arms and the feel of his blood drying on your hands, so it takes you a moment to get your head straight and suppress the images, hiding them away in your subconscious.

Then, on automatic, you start an inventory of your body; limbs all still attached, although your left leg is throbbing painfully, back and shoulders ache but not too badly, probably just bruises, you feel dizzy and ill but long experience suggests you've got, if any, only a mild concussion.

Surroundings next.

You turn your head on the pillow, not sure if you trust it not to fall off if you try and lift it yet, and there's Sammy, sitting at the kitchen table. His hands are playing with some of the papers spread over it, but he's staring into nothingness, expression thoughtful and worried.

So he should be, his big brother is a nearly-headless _pulp_.

You clear your throat, rather pointedly, and he jumps.

"Dean," he says, and the look of relief and sheer joy that quickly passes over his face is really rather gratifying. He gets up and grabs a bottle of water before coming over to your bed and helping you into a sitting position.

Head still attached? Yeah, seems like it. You wouldn't be feeling this dizzy if it were rolling around on the floor under the bed, right?

"Thanks," you rasp once you've gulped down half the bottle of water, and swallowed a painkiller. You hate to take tablets, it dulls your reactions. "How long've I…"

"Few hours," Sam replies, trying and failing to sound casual and unaffected. "It's Thursday morning, nearly ten."

"How'd you get me in here?"

"You don't wanna know," he says drily, but that's not true, he doesn't want to talk about it.

One token older-brother-eye-roll, coming up. Some things are best not talked about, after all.

"So you'll have to go grave-digging by yourself, then, huh?" you joke, gesturing down at your leg.

"Slight problem with that plan for stopping Mrs. Mallory, actually."

"Mrs. _who_?"

"Dude. Seriously. The ghost that dropped you through a ceiling yesterday? Ring any bells at all?"

"Why in the hell would I bother remembering their names?"

"We're destroying them, it's only polite. As I said, though, there's a problem."

"How so? No, don't tell me –"

"Yep. Cremated."

"Man. I hate when they do that. So what's anchoring her?"

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Anchoring?"

"Yeah, you know. To this" – you gesticulate expressively, and soak your voice in so much sarcasm it overflows onto the sheet – "plane of existence."

Sammy grins and shrugs. "Well, it's either an artefact, like the Hookman, or its unfinished business, like Molly. I know you're not feeling too great, but your leg isn't all that bad, so by Sunday you can head back up there and poke around again."

"Me?" and no, that was _not_ a yelp, that was an exclamation, "why me? She dropped me through the _ceiling_, remember?"

"She wasn't going to kill you, you said," Sam protests.

You gape at him. Did you? "Did I?" Then, a beat later, "oh, right. In the car. Look, man I was delirious, OK? You're the –"

"Killer," Sam interrupts, harsh and caustic, and you feel like he's punched you. He can't believe that. Not really.

He does, though. Dad's eyes glint at you in the dim daylight, Sammy's hands twisting together as he continues, clutching at your sheets, and suddenly you reach over and grab them both in your right one. His fingers close around yours tightly, like the little boy who used to run to you when he'd grazed his knees.

"I killed Jake. She looks at people's motivations, Dean, not their deeds. She kills murderers, people who take pleasure in it, who kill for no other reason. You've killed, yes. To protect me. I killed Jake, and I – I enjoyed it."

You didn't even notice when your left hand curled around the back of his neck, trying to steady him, to offer comfort. It's long moments before you can speak.

"It doesn't make you one of them."

He does that little head-jerk-to-the-side thing that's a sign of a nervous, or afraid, Sam.

"Not quite," he says.

Someone up there really hates you both. What did you do to piss off the Moirae? Here that yellow-eyed sonovabitch is finally dead, and Sam is closer to becoming what he wanted him to be than he ever has been. He's killed a man, in cold blood, and he enjoyed it.

Is this your fault? Did you do this to him by bringing him back?

"Not ever," you say fiercely, gripping tighter. "Not ever, Sammy."

Sam's about to reply when the phone rings; it's the local Sheriff's office. They've tracked down the Mallory's daughter. Lives in a town a couple hours down the road. You can't pronounce the name of the place, though. Not with this lump in your throat.


	3. we see things they'll never see

_I wasn't going to update for a day or so... but this story has latched onto my brain and is feeding on all my concentration. Like one of those Wraith-bugs in Stargate Atlantis._

* * *

Friday morning, 10.33. The worst thing about being injured? Sammy gets to drive your baby. 

Which means he also gets to pick the music, and man, you _hate_ Oasis.

The two of you are heading over to the Mallory place to make sure nothing's happened since your little accident on Wednesday; then you're driving up to that town with the unpronounceable name to see the daughter. Your mind has been working on overdrive, trying to think of a way to get her to talk to you, but so far, you've got nothing.

Doesn't worry you. Once you're actually there, in front of her, you'll think of something. Bullcrap at short notice is your speciality; working it out beforehand never gets you good results.

Dad always needed to plan it all, you remember. You and Sam used to tease him about it when you were kids.

The Impala turns onto the road leading to the house and Sam swears; an instant later, following his gaze, so do you.

There's a car sitting in front of the house, and its owner, a woman in her early forties, is standing looking up at the building with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Isn't she a bit old for truth-or-dare?" you demand, hauling yourself out of the car by clinging to the door.

"Dean… I think that's the daughter," Sam says slowly.

You look again, more closely, and realise he's right, there's no one else she could be. It's the look on her face that gives it away: a mixture of fear and nervousness and loathing and a sense of terrible loss. You've seen it before. You've felt it before.

Jobs like this one really suck.

"Mrs. Rosenbaum?" Sam asks, moving towards her. She turns in surprise.

"Yes? Who are you?"

"We're with the police, ma'am," Sam replies, "we were actually just on our way over to see you… ask you a couple questions. I assume if you're here you know what's been happening in the house?"

The puzzled look gives way to wariness.

"With the police? In that car? I don't think so."

Was that an insult? The _cheek_ of the woman.

You hate dealing with smart people. They're so astute. And observant. And, ya know, smart.

All these things leaving only one option open for you to explore. Frontal attack.

"Who we are isn't really the issue here, Mrs. Rosenbaum," you tell her, limping forwards. Sam makes a move as if to help you; you glance across at him and he subsides, looking irritated.

Lecture ahoy.

"The issue," you continue as if your little exchange hadn't happened, "is that house, and what's been going on in it. Could you please trust for now that we're here to stop the murders and tell us –"

"You can't stop the deaths," she interrupts harshly. Sam glances up, registering the use of the word 'deaths' rather than 'murders'. "No one can – at least, that I know of. I've tried, but they've all been fakes."

In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary…

"What?" you say blankly.

Sam's watching her with that look he gets when he's on the verge of working everything out.

"Mrs. Rosenbaum," he says slowly, do you know what's really happening here?"

Linda (ha! You knew it was something starting with 'L') Rosenbaum draws a sharp breath and looks at him, her expression going from angry to off-balance and, at the same time, inexpressibly weary.

You know that look from the inside, too.

"My mother is haunting the house," she says simply.

For a moment, you're both just stunned. This must be the first time in your whole career that you've met someone not in the business who _believes_. Before you arrived, even.

Poor Ron doesn't count. He'd seen a few too many episodes of _Doctor Who_. But Linda Rosenbaum… she's _sensible_. She teaches high school math!

She also mistakes your stumped looks. "Listen, I know how it sounds, OK? But I've seen her. I know she's there. And I think I know why. The police can't do anything. And neither can you."

"That's where you're wrong," you tell her. "We're not fakes."

"Oh," she says, taken aback. Apparently, that's the last thing she was expecting. Then, with a little more skepticism, "really?"

"Yeah, really," you tell her, and man, was that lame or what?

Judging by the look he's thrown you, Sammy thinks so too.

Your answering one tells him to _shut up, can you do better?_

"Look," he says to Linda, "we're telling the truth. We hunt these thi- vengeful spirits. You know how they become what they are, right? They're born out of violent death."

On the last sentence, his voice drops, getting softer, and Yahtzee! Linda's face crumples briefly before she pulls herself together.

"How did you know? The official cause of death was a heart attack."

"We talked to some people," you reply with a slight shrug. "Like I said, we know what we're doing. We're here to stop anyone else from dying in that house, Mrs. Rosenbaum. It'd be much easier if you could help us."

You make sure your words are a statement, not a request. People tend to have more confidence in you that way.

Linda sighs. "You could at least tell me your names," she says.

"Dean. And this is Sam."

"Call me Linda."

"Linda. Look, we know how hard this is for you –"

She interrupts Sam with a snort of bitter laughter. "Oh, do you?"

"Yes, we do," you say sharply, and she must have seen something in your face, because she gives a jerking little nod of apology. Her eyes flick from you to the Impala to Sammy, then back to you. _She's looking at me,_ you think. All your life, you've known you're beautiful, and you use it as a weapon, no different from your favourite shotgun or the knife in your boot. But every so often you come across someone who sees your face as a part of you instead of all of you, and Linda Rosenbaum seems to be one of those people.

Cassie was too, that's one of the reasons why you loved her. Turned out she couldn't deal with the other parts.

"Linda," Sam carries on, tearing slightly worried eyes away from you, "I'm very sorry, but we need to know – well, everything you do. What happened that night, what you've learned since… all of it."

She nods. Whatever she saw in you, it seems to be telling her to trust you.

Happens a lot, actually. You're not sure why.

"I understand. Someplace else?" she asks.

Sam'll kill you for it, but you just can't help yourself. "Your place or ours?"

To your surprise, Linda actually laughs. "Which is closer? And where can I smoke?"


	4. maybe you're the same as me

_AN: I hope I don't have to tell you that the mentioned quotation is from "The Lord of the Rings."_

* * *

You don't go to anyone's place, in the end, just choose a small diner in a quiet backstreet and order three huge cups of black coffee. Linda lights a cigarette and takes a while to compose herself; neither you nor Sam push her. After all, you know what she's going through. 

Cases like these, with such similarities to your own lives, really freak you out. They mess with your head, put cracks in the walls you've been building for decades. You hate it.

You hate this silence, waiting for Linda to force herself to relive those God-awful hours, locked in a closet, listening to her mother die.

Suddenly, you find you're almost grateful you didn't wake up until it was too late to do anything but take Sammy and _run_.

Finally, she clears her throat and looks up at you both.

"Well. Here goes, I guess. I've never told anyone about this, not even my husband. My father was an Army Major, and he was very… old-fashioned, you might say. Disciplinarian, you know? Corporal punishment was always pretty much the norm. I think he was forever disappointed I wasn't a boy. I'm pretty sure he blamed Mom for that. For just about everything, including the drinking.

Mom was… delicate. She always seemed so fragile to me, the complete opposite to Him. That night he'd come home late, I don't know if he was drunk or not. I wasn't really old enough to tell. And I broke a glass, in the kitchen. One of his shot glasses, I think. You'd think every detail would be burned in my brain, but I don't remember what glass I broke. Could even have been a mug... Anyway, he hit me, backhanded me across the face."

She pauses to sip coffee and draw on the cigarette. You feel sick, and it's not because of your still-throbbing head wound.

"She came in when she heard me crying. I've always wondered – would she still be alive if I had just kept quiet?"

Beside you, Sam physically flinches. _Dad's dead because of me,_ you think, the echoes of that awful guilt running through you. It doesn't hurt as much as it did then, though. Cold Oak showed you why Dad did what he did. In great detail.

"Well. He was about to hit me again, I think… but when she saw me, crouched on the ground holding my face, she _shouted _at him… he was so surprised. She'd never stood up to him before. She slapped him – actually slapped him. By that point, I was terrified. He hit her – punched her in the face. She fell down, and he grabbed me, and dragged me into the hall… locked me in the closet. Said he'd get back to me later... I could hear, when he went back into the kitchen…"

Linda can't finish. You reach over the table and take her hand in yours, like you did for Sam yesterday. She squeezes your fingers slightly and smiles tremulously up at you.

Beside you, Sam presses his shoulder against yours. Hard to tell whether you're giving or receiving comfort through that simple touch.

Linda narrows her eyes at you for a minute, studying you both, and then says, "But you're brothers." She sounds surprised – hadn't she noticed it before?

Sam glances up at her, and she flushes slightly. "Sorry. I just – oh, never mind me. I'm not really with it right now."

You reach into your coat and pull out the silver flask wordlessly; just as wordlessly, she holds out her coffee cup to you.

She's growing on you, this lady. If only she weren't married…

Winchester, you did _not_ just think that.

Anyway.

"Thanks," Linda says, taking a long gulp of whiskey-laced coffee. "It almost feels like someone else's life sometimes, you know? It was so long ago, and so different… my grandparents brought me up after the funeral. I don't know what they said to him, but I think they must have realised he'd killed her. At first I kinda resented them for not seeing it while she was still alive, but on the whole, I was happy after that. As happy as anyone could be in that situation."

She gulps more coffee down; you're starting to wonder if you should have put quite that much whiskey in it.

Then, she asks the dreaded question.

"Back at the house, when you said you knew what I was going through… you meant it, didn't you?"

You look at Sam; he raises one shoulder at you in a half-shrug. _It's your choice, man, your memories._

Unfortunately.

"When we were kids, there – there was a fire, at our house," you explain. For years at school you practiced the quick, unemotional delivery of these sentences, but faced with someone who knows exactly what they mean, you can't manage it. "Mom… Mom died. I was four; Sammy doesn't even remember it."

"I'm sorry," Linda says, and she is.

Silence for a while; you're all lost now in the memory of your own pain, separate but alike.

Then Sam gives himself a little shake, and says quietly to Linda, "You said you'd tried to stop it before?"

No prizes for guessing what 'it' he means.

She nods. "Yeah. I went back to the house once I turned eighteen… he was dead, and it was legally mine now. And I saw her. Just walking about, moving through the rooms. She didn't see me. That kinda hurt."

Sam smiles slightly. "She wouldn't have recognised you," he says.

_Mom__ recognised__ us,_ you think. But then, she wasn't crazy, and killing people.

"Hadn't thought of that," Linda admits. "Silly, huh? I just assumed – if she'd stayed around, you know? But after, when the first two men died, I started to do a little research on – the paranormal."

"The fakes you mentioned?" you ask. She nods again. "Yeah. I just used the phone book, you know? Figured they couldn't all be charlatans."

"People in our line of work don't usually advertise it," you tell her. "It's not very often the people we help come to us. As a rule, they don't know to."

"Makes sense I guess. Then, when it didn't work, when they couldn't - give her peace, let her rest, whatever - I just didn't know what to do anymore. Not even the priest I asked could do it."

"The thing about the Last Rites is that they only work if you believe in them," you explain. "If it was as simple as givin' them to every ghost out there we'd be out of a job pretty quickly."

"So now what?"

"Well, we've gotta go back to the house," you tell her. She closes her eyes briefly, steeling herself.

"What for?" she wants to know.

"Spirits like your mother don't hang around for no reason," Sam explains gently. "Especially when their remains have been cremated already. Unfinished business, you know? It's become a bit of a cliché, but it's true."

"So you need to know - what? Why she's killing those men? I've looked into all the dead guys. She only kills murderers, bullies, people who deserve it. That was a bit of a relief, actually."

Well, it would be. If your dead mother's going to become a vengeful spirit, wouldn't anyone rather she killed people who were askin' for it, 'stead of innocent kids, say?

Remembering the fury in Mom's voice when she told that poltergeist to _get out of my house, and let go of my son_ makes you smile, a little.

Then Sam does his head-to-one-side-while-frowning-curiously thing and asks her, "So, you're... OK with it?"

Linda looks up sharply. Then she does something that knocks you off your chair with surprise. You used to read the books to Sam when you were kids. They were Dad's favourite, and quickly became yours too. There's a copy in the glove box of the Impala even now.

"Many that live deserve death," Linda says. "Some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement."

Sammy's smile is wide and genuine, now. "Even the very wise cannot see all ends," he finishes the quote.

Why he looks at you as he says it is beyond you.


	5. oh tell me where your freedom lies

_AN: You know what? The first version kinda sucked.__ Sorry I didn't__ realise__ that until after I'd posted it._

The drive back to the house is made in silence but for Oasis. Linda's in the backseat, staring out of the window. You don't think you really wanna know what's going through her head right now. Sammy's driving, and you're trying to work out how the hell you're going to get Linda's mom to move on before she kills you.

Not to mention that you're not sure how far Linda is going to trust you if certain… information… about yourself and Sammy comes to light.

If it's an artefact she's clinging to, then you're in trouble. Unless Linda can remember anything that would have been special to her Mom, you may well end up having to burn the whole house, like in Richardson. If it's unfinished business, on the other hand…

_…get out of my house, and let go of my son… _

That's it!

"That's it!"

"What!" It's a good thing Sam's reflexes are so quick, or your baby would be a crumpled mess at the bottom of that ditch right now.

The three of you wouldn't be looking too good either.

"What's the matter?" Linda asks from the backseat, leaning forwards worriedly.

You bite down on the urge to slap Sam upside the head for nearly crashing your car, because, ya know, your fault in the first place, and say triumphantly, "I know why she's still here!"

"This couldn't have waited till we arrived?" Sam demands, and heaves a long-suffering sigh when he sees your face. "Fine. Enlighten us, Mr. Bub-"

"Should never have let you watch that Guy Ritchie marathon," you interrupt before he can finish the quote. "It's you, Linda," turning back to look at her.

"But – no! I tried to stop her – "

"I don't mean you're keeping her here," you explain hastily. "I mean – look. She's not killing men like your Dad for revenge, OK? She's killing them to _protect you_."

"I'm not even there!" Linda protests.

"Wouldn't matter to her," you say. "Spirits follow patterns, see. She kills men like your Dad because he was a danger to you. She's confused, and lashing out, and I'm not explaining this very well because Sammy usually gives the _Ghost Whisperer_ speech but I think that's it."

"That's exactly it," Sam says. "Dean's right, Linda. That's why she didn't kill him on Wednesday. She realised in time he wouldn't hurt you, not like the others might have. Unusual flash of genius for him, but it fits."

You bite back the urge to stick your tongue out at him. At least he's finally admitted the genius thing.

"Spirits don't see the details, the differences, just the similarities," he continues, smirking as if he's just read your mind. "All your Mom woulda known, every time, was that a man like your Dad, who hurt you, was in the house, and she had to stop him."

"She tried to kill Dean?" Linda whispered.

Oops. Well done, Sammy.

"She dropped me through the ceiling," you shrug. "It's no big. Seriously. Just a stiff leg, and I imagine you've noticed the bruises."

Linda gives a shaky laugh. "I was afraid to ask. Good instinct, huh?"

For a moment you watch her in the rearview mirror. She looks so lost, a little girl whose Mommy has been killed. Wounds like that never really heal.

"You did everything you could," you tell her. "More than any person we've ever met, actually. The rest is up to us, now."

She reaches out and squeezes your hand, lying on the back of the seat.

Hello, personal space? People don't touch you unless invited to. _Ever._ It's in the rulebook.

"So how'd you figure that out?" Sam asks you, giving you an excuse to turn away and pull your hand from Linda's.

_Thanks, Sammy_, your look tells him.

Then you shrug. "Get outta my house – "

He's smiling when he turns back to the road. "Yeah."

Linda stares.

* * *

Back at the house, you climb out of the car with a wince; your leg's getting stiffer. Sam comes round the hood and catches your elbow, helping you upright. 

Linda looks concerned. "Are you sure you should be here?"

"I'll be fine," you tell her firmly.

"You won't talk him out of it," Sam says, coming back from the boot with a shotgun in either hand. Linda's eyebrows travel so far up her forehead they disappear into her hairline, and you're suddenly glad you're too old to have been in her Math classes at school. "What are you doing with those?" she demands.

"Loaded with rock salt, it drives away spirits," Sam explains. "Just in case."

She stills looks doubtful. "Didn't Dean just say –"

"She's not exactly thinking straight, Linda," Sam points out gently.

You're limping as you head over to the house, and Sam doesn't take his hand off your elbow.

Once inside, Linda takes the lead, moving into the living room. There's a dark stain of your blood on the floor near the now-destroyed couch, and you wince, imagining the sight that must have met Sam's eyes when he came in on Wednesday.

Linda walks over to the couch, and looks up at the hole in the ceiling. She tilts her head, and a faint smile crosses her face.

"Theory proved," she says. "That," pointing upwards, "was my bedroom."

You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to look like you're doing it to be lazy and casual instead of in order to keep yourself upright. The look Sam shoots you as he moves past you towards the back of the room, and the door leading to the hall and kitchen, tells you he isn't fooled, and to _give it up,__ man._

When was the last time you listened to him, anyway?

"Can't see her," he says, coming back. "Maybe we should come back after dark?"

But as he reaches Linda, a sudden cold wind blows through the room. From where you're standing, you can almost see it hit his chest and fling him back against the wall, shotgun spinning away across the floor, and there she is, the ghost you saw on Wednesday, standing between him and Linda.

"Never come near her again!" her voice echoes, and she turns as you push yourself away from the wall and bring up your own shotgun.

"I won't let you hurt her anymore, I've done nothing for too long," the words are almost a snarl. She raises a hand towards you, and your finger tightens on the trigger, but then Linda shakes herself out of her sudden paralysis and comes to stand in front of you.

"Mom?" she whispers; where have you heard that tremble in her voice before?

Her mother's spirit pulls back, lowering her hand. "Linda?"

"Mom," Linda repeats softly, longingly. Then she half-turns to you, and says, "Mom, please, don't hurt them. They're helping me –"

"Helping you? No, Lin, you don't know what you're talking about. You're too young to understand, sweetie. There's guilt pouring off him in waves!"

She flings a hand out behind her, pointing at Sam. You're itching to drop the shotgun and run to see if he's OK, but then he rolls over with a groan, trying to get upright, and a rush of relief passes through you.

Linda's shaking her head firmly. "No, Mom, no. They're good men, Mom. They help people."

"Help people? They've killed! And him, the younger one, he took pleasure in it!"

"It was one man, and he deserved it," you say, deciding it's time to put your own two cents into the conversation.

"That's no excuse," she snarls, and you raise an eyebrow.

"Isn't it what you're doing now?"

"Mom," Linda breaks in, reaching for her and then pulling back because, ya know, insubstantial, right? "Mom, please. You're not making the world a better place –"

"This isn't about the world!" her mother cries.

_…then let it end! …_

"This is about you. You're my daughter. There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe, Lin! And these two, they are _violent_. They kill!"

"You weren't so sure about that on Wednesday," you say sharply.

"I was mistaken," she hisses. "Murderers! Cold-blooded murderers."

"You know nothing about us," you spit at her, furious. "Nothing, you understand? After everything we've been through, you've got no right. No right at all! You don't know what you're talking about."

This is worse than that self-righteous bastard Hendrickson.

"I know enough," she snarls. "People – _men!_ – like you, you don't change. You just carry on, regardless. Always the same."

"Everyone can change," Sam says from behind her. She stiffens, but doesn't turn, unwilling, it seems, to take her eyes off Linda.

"You really think I don't regret what I did? You really think if I could change it, I wouldn't? Come on. You can read people's minds, right? Read mine. Tell me what you see in here. And if I'm the murderer you think I am, please, go ahead and kill me."

There's such bitterness, such guilt in his voice. It tears at you; it's not right. Sam shouldn't ever talk like that, like you.

But before you can protest, before Mrs. Mallory can even turn around (if she were human, and had blood to do so, you'd have said it all drained out of her face as Sam spoke, leaving her paler than ever) Linda jumps in again.

"Mom. Please listen. I'm over forty, Mom. You've been gone for years. I'm married; my husband and I have a daughter. Her name's Alice, like yours. You don't have to protect me anymore. You need to let go, to let me go."

Her mother pulls back, shocked. "A daughter?" she says. "Alice?"

"Yes, Mom. So I know exactly what you're feeling but, please, you have to see. You can't protect me anymore, no matter how much you want to. You don't need to. Sam and Dean… they're good men. They'd never hurt me, or anyone else."

Past the arguing mother and daughter, you meet Sam's eyes. He's reached his shotgun now, and you shake your head at him slightly. _No. L__et Linda deal with this._

Mrs. Mallory hasn't spoken, hasn't moved, is just standing there, looking at her daughter. Seeing _her_, the grown woman, not the little girl she died to protect.

Noticing the tell-tale blur at her outlines, the slow growth of light inside her form, you understand that this is the closure she needed. Not just to see Linda again, but to know she is safe, and well.

You understand, because what else would make you, _you,_ Dean Winchester, surrender your soul willingly to a demon other than the knowledge that Sam is safe because of it?

Is this how Dad felt, those last few minutes in your hospital room?

"A daughter…" Mrs. Mallory says again, slowly. "Are you… are you happy?"

Linda nods, tears pouring down her face. "Very," she whispers brokenly.

The light growing around her mother gets brighter and brighter until none of you can bear to look; then, it's gone, taking her with it.


	6. the streets are fields that never die

_AN: This really __IS__ the end. _

"Thank you," Linda says. You're about to go your separate ways, but she just _has_ to hug you both first, doesn't she? "I don't know what else to say… thank you."

"You're welcome," Sam replies, a bit awkwardly. It's not often you get thanked.

She looks up at him curiously for a minute, and says, "I don't know exactly what you did, but… my grandmother used to say – she had this huge collection of terrible aphorisms – that guilt is a wasteful emotion. Just forgive yourself and go on to do better. Sometimes there's no other way, you know."

He smiles at her in silent thanks.

She turns to you, looks for a minute as if she wants to say something along the same deep and meaningful lines, and then shakes her head and grins.

You just grin back.

"If you're ever back up here, come see me," she tells you both. "You can crash in the spare room… I'll tell Tony you're long-lost cousins, or something."

And on that note, she climbs into her car and drives off.

* * *

Back on the road again, Sammy says quietly, "You know, I get it now. The way you were last year – hell, for all my life. I'm sorry." 

"I thought I said no chick-flick moments," you retort, suddenly uncomfortable.

He shrugs. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," he says. "From now on, that goes for the conversation, too."

Silent eye-roll before you say, "What Linda said… she was right, you know."

"Yeah. Guess so. Still."

"Not very convincing, Sammy. Besides, you're the one with the faith, remember? Isn't this what it's all about? Forgive us our trespasses, and all that? Redemption?"

You can't believe you're bringing that up.

Sam laughs shortly. "Yeah. That was all a lot easier back before I'd actually done anything, though."

This really isn't your thing, but you can't bear for him to carry all that bitterness with him. That's your job, right?

Isn't it?

But still: straight in the deep end.

"I don't know much about faith, Sam, you know that – but I do know that it's not supposed to be a walk in the park. If you just pack it all in when it gets difficult, then it's not really faith, is it?"

"And now you sound like Pastor Jim."

"There's worse people, I guess."

"I don't suppose you've ever heard of 'practicing what you preach'?"

"What use is redemption to a guy who's goin' to Hell in less than a year anyway?"

"No, you're not."

There's such firm conviction in his voice that you can't even answer him for a moment.

"Sam –"

"Just shut up, Dean. You never listen, do you? I've told you and I've told you but you only ever hear what you want to. Tell you what. I'll put this in terms you're sure to understand. I need to save you Because you're all that keeps me sane. OK? If it weren't for you, I woulda killed Jake in Cold Oak and be leading a demon army to conquer the world right about now."

"I wasn't even there!" you protest.

"Not in Cold Oak, no. But that wasn't when it mattered."

"Sooo…" Smart comeback, dude, really.

"So I'm not the selfish bastard I was at was at eighteen anymore. And I need you. I need my big brother. Period. End of discussion. Don't you dare argue with that."

You don't. Dare, that is. He sounds too much like Dad.

Besides, he's right. He does get it.

Took him long enough.

He glances over at you and mistakes your relieved silence for continuing dissent. "Put it another way. As far as I'm concerned, the only way I'm getting redeemed? Is by saving you."

Silence, for a long time. Then you just can't help but be… well, you.

"Shoulda known, I guess. Stubborn, spoiled brat that you are."

He grins, lazy, amused, and doesn't bother to answer, which sorta annoys you.

"So in light of all this, are you gonna let me put _The Doors_ on?"

Sammy reaches over to turn up the music. "No," he smirks.


End file.
